


your eyes are swallowing me

by citadelofswords



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Dancing, Flirting, M/M, Masquerade, Unresolved Sexual Tension, for such a brilliant thief peter is kind of an idiot, yeah i don't know what this is either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 11:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8444476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citadelofswords/pseuds/citadelofswords
Summary: Juno can’t breathe. Nureyev didn’t recognize him. Nureyev, the man who wears a mask every day from the moment he wakes up til he falls asleep at night, who sees through every mask and disguise, who catches every minute facial expression and catalogs it, looked through the eyeholes of his golden fox mask and didn’t recognize Juno Steel.  (or, the masquerade ball fic no one asked for ever)





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from Sleepwalking by This Wild Life
> 
> I could have made this a halloween fic but I totally didn't think of it until just now when I was trying to figure out how to tag it but. oh well.

Rita, likely still on edge after Juno disappeared with a known criminal for two weeks and reappeared with nightmares, malnutrition, and a number of new scars, in recent weeks has insisted on shadowing Juno wherever he goes. And if she has somewhere to be, Juno finds himself dragged along as her plus one. Sometimes it’s to the cinema. Sometimes, it’s to a recreation of a 19th century masquerade ball.

At least the dress Rita picked out is pretty.

Juno stands at the edge of the crowd, wearing a feathered mask lovingly crafted by Rita herself that does very little to hide his eyes but does hide his scars, which probably counts as a disguise by everyone’s standards. Not that anyone here would recognize him, what with him being from Oldtown and everyone else being very, very drunk. Rita is off in a corner, charming everyone she meets with her bubbly personality and her bright pink dress.

Rita’s always been better at the party scene than Juno. Usually he gets a drink, mingles a little bit, dances with one or two people maybe, and goes home to strip down into a more comfortable sleep shirt. Admittedly, the midnight blue dress Rita had wrestled him into is far more comfortable than any dress Juno’s owned in recent years, leaving him enough mobility that he could run if he needed to while not making him look like a poofy cupcake. It’s quite flattering. Juno wonders if she’d let him keep it. 

He’s just about steeled himself to get a drink and start mingling when someone bumps into him from behind and he almost trips over the bottom hem of his dress.

“Oh!” says a very familiar voice from behind him, and Juno freezes in trying to unhook his dress from his heel. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turns around, and finds Peter Nureyev, in a black suit that hangs off his frame so well it physically hurts Juno to see it and a gold mask crafted to look like a fox. His hands extend towards Juno’s arm to help him balance and his mouth twists in apology. “I’m so sorry, darling, I was not paying attention to where I was going.”

Startled, Juno can do nothing but wave him off, and Nureyev smiles and vanishes back into the crowd. Juno makes his way to the bar and orders the first thing he sees without really thinking about it, which turns out to be something purple that’s a little too sweet for Juno’s usual taste, but does the trick for Juno’s nerves. He orders another one for good measure.

From across the bar, Juno spots Nureyev easily, watching him carefully. When Nureyev realizes he’s being watched, he gives Juno a tiny smile, very unlike his usual smirk, and makes to turn away. There is a moment where he seems to hesitate, and Juno thinks for a wild moment that Nureyev’s going to come back to him, start teasing and flirting, and indeed Nureyev looks like he’s about to say his name. But then, impossibly, Nureyev shakes his head, and Juno is not a master of lipreading but he swears Nureyev just muttered “No, that’s not him,” to himself as he walked away.

Juno can’t breathe. Nureyev didn’t recognize him. Nureyev, the man who wears a mask every day from the moment he wakes up til he falls asleep at night, who sees through every mask and disguise, who catches every minute facial expression and catalogs it, looked through the eyeholes of his golden fox mask and didn’t recognize Juno Steel. Nureyev doesn’t know he’s here, or else he would have stayed at Juno’s side and talked and flirted with him— Juno may not know much about Peter Nureyev but he knows that much.

It’s been about two months since Miasma and Juno knows Nureyev’s been off-world for much of that time, but he didn’t think he’d changed that much.

Juno looks down at himself and he lets himself wonder what it would be like to be the lady on Nureyev’s arm. Or would Nureyev be on his arm? For one long, glorious moment, he lets himself fantasize about sweeping into a grand hall like this, all eyes turning to look at them; Juno in diamonds, Nureyev in that sharp black suit— and he lets himself fantasize about it a moment too long and has to step onto a balcony to get some air and to stop sweating.

It’s only once his heart has stopped pounding in his ears, gripping the rusted iron of the balcony, that he realizes that he isn’t alone out here. And, of course, the other person is Peter Nureyev himself, all clean lines and dark hair. With far more of his wits about him than before, Juno notes how the mask makes Nureyev look even more like a fox than he usually does. It’s fitting, really. Juno wonders if he picked it himself, or if someone else picked it for him. Vicky might have. It’s something she would do.

Nureyev looks up and startles, taking a step back. Juno can’t see his eyes but he knows how they must look— wide and apologetic, sincere and yet somehow, not quite. Still as mysterious as ever.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Nureyev says, and smiles. That’s Rex Glass, in the angle of his grin and the way he stands a little slumped. That’s not Peter Nureyev. “Were you looking for air as well?”

Not trusting his voice, and not wanting to give himself away, Juno only nods, and steps, as smoothly as he can given how high his heels are, just a step closer to Nureyev. Nureyev turns back to look out on the desert, in the gloom of the Martian night. “It is rather crowded in there, isn’t it? Almost suffocatingly so.”

“Mmm,” Juno says. Beyond the protective dome, a dust devil swirls.

“Are you with anyone tonight?” Nureyev asks. Juno’s eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head, glancing to his side. Nureyev has turned back to look out over the desert, seemingly unfazed by the height they’re standing at. Juno has to keep reminding himself that the railing will hold him and not to look straight down.

Then he remembers that Nureyev asked him a question.

“No,” he says, and Nureyev looks at him. For a moment, he thinks he’s been discovered, that Nureyev knows who it is behind the mask, but Nureyev only smiles, a mere shadow of his Rex Glass grin, and holds out a hand.

“Me neither,” he says. “Care for a dance? Such a lovely gown should see the floor at least once, no?”

Juno swallows and reaches to take Nureyev’s hand. One dance… One dance couldn’t hurt, could it? That was the whole point of a masquerade, wasn’t it?

They reenter on the second floor, overlooking the main ballroom. There are clusters of men in stiff suits exchanging words and ladies in flowing gowns laughing over flutes of champagne. A few couples spin on the floor. It’s a true 19th century Terran ball; Juno is rather impressed with their host. 

They descend the stairs and people do actually start looking in their direction. Nureyev squeezes Juno’s hand, a ghost of his grip in Miasma’s car but something to hold onto all the same. Juno lets out a little breath and follows Nureyev out onto the floor.

They glide into the midst of the partners, dancing an old-style Terran foxtrot, and Nureyev’s hand moves to Juno’s waist, bringing him a half-step closer. Not as close as Juno expected, but still close enough that their shoulders brush when they step in line with each other. Juno finds himself trying to peer beyond the shadows cast by Nureyev’s mask, trying to catch a glimpse of those clever eyes to see if he can see what Nureyev is thinking at this moment, but every time he thinks he catches a gleam they turn and Juno loses it again.

The foxtrot transitions into a dizzying quickstep and then into a tango that causes Nureyev’s grip to tighten, one hand in Juno’s and the other on the small of Juno’s back. For a moment, just a moment, Juno thinks their eyes meet, and he can almost swear there’s a heat in Nureyev’s gaze he’s seen before, once or twice, after the mask and in the hotel room after the game, but he loses Nureyev’s gaze immediately and he thinks it must have been a trick of the light.

Juno doesn’t have two left feet, persay, but dancing has never been his strong suit. Nevertheless there’s something about the tango that has always drawn him in. Maybe it’s the necessity of the perfect feet placement, maybe it’s in the quick movements and the dancing around each other, just a little too close for comfort but not close enough to be anything more than a tease. Maybe it’s the way Nureyev bends him backwards and brings him back up, lips and teeth just scraping against Juno’s neck. Whatever it is, Juno gets lost in it, until he’s brought back to Mars by the feeling of Nureyev tugging on his hand. Nureyev is at just the right angle for Juno to see that his eyes are dark and he follows Nureyev back out onto the balcony, thankfully still deserted.

Almost immediately Nureyev has Juno crowded against the iron railing, just out of view of the doorway. “I’ve got you, darling, don’t worry,” Nureyev murmurs, and slides one hand behind Juno’s neck to support him. “You won’t fall as long as I’m here.”

Juno trusts him. There was about two weeks where Juno Steel didn’t trust Peter Nureyev, but that was a long time ago, and Juno is not about to make that mistake again. He grips Nureyev’s crisp black dress shirt in his hands and pulls, and Nureyev comes willingly.

Kissing Nureyev is just as exhilarating as Juno remembers it being, except this time there is no crushing weight of lies and betrayal hanging over Juno’s head. There’s just the feeling of Nureyev’s sharp teeth nipping at his lower lip and Nureyev’s fingers tightening on the back of his neck.

But it ends all too soon. Juno’s pushed himself off the balcony and Nureyev up against the wall when Nureyev breaks the kiss and pushes Juno back, eyes shut tight, face angled at the floor. “No,” he says, and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Juno can still feel the heat of Nureyev’s hands at his waist and the pressure of his fingers where they’d gripped his neck, can still smell Nureyev’s signature cologne in the air between them. “Why not?” he asks, voice rough.

Nureyev turns away. “It’s getting late,” he says. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful lady, my dear, but the clock will strike twelve and you’ll vanish from my life just as quickly as you came.”

Juno has to resist the urge to rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest instead. Why can’t Nureyev be honest with one person, just one? If he really thinks Juno’s about to leave, if he really believes Juno is a different person who he will never see again, then why can’t he just tell the truth for once in his life, without Juno having to pry it from his head?

“And,” Nureyev sighs, and Juno’s head snaps up so quickly his mask almost flies off, “there is… someone who I have been thinking of this whole night while I have been with you. That isn’t fair to you or to him. I— I may have run away from him and I still feel a modicum of guilt about it. Do you ever make the same— well, it doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does,” Juno says, unable to contain himself any longer. “You keep making the same mistake over and over and don’t know what to do about it, right? Have you tried just being honest? Pulling off the mask and saying what you’re really thinking?”

Nureyev blinks at him. “Juno?” he asks. Somewhere beyond this balcony, on the other side of this manor, a clock chimes.

“It’s midnight,” Juno says softly, and draws away. “Am I really the Cinderella of this story, or are you?”

“I—,” Nureyev says, and puts one hand to the mask suspended over his eyes. Juno lifts his own so it reveals his eyes and his scars, and when Nureyev pulls his own mask completely off his face he looks up and meets Juno’s eyes.

“It _was_ you all along,” Nureyev says. “I thought— but you didn’t say anything.”

Juno shrugs and runs his thumb along the bottom edge of his mask. “You didn’t ask,” he says. “I was surprised you didn’t recognize me immediately— this mask doesn’t hide very much.”

“You drank the wrong drink.”

Juno snorts. “I don’t just drink whiskey, Nureyev,” he says. “And you didn’t figure it out when you kissed me?”

“I thought I was projecting,” Nureyev admits, and Juno laughs. There’s something about this Nureyev, uncertain and sheepish, that warms Juno’s chest.

“Have your qualms gone away?” Juno asks. “Or shall we have another dance?”

Nureyev looks over Juno approvingly. “Another dance, Juno love,” he says, eyes dark, stepping forwards. “But I think the ballroom can wait, don’t you?”

 

(This time, just this once, Cinderella gets to leave the ball with her Prince Charming at her side.)

**Author's Note:**

> [this is my tumblr](http://citadelofswords.tumblr.com/), please prompt me


End file.
